


Ripples

by sentientcitizen



Category: BBC’s Sherlock, Doctor Who
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-17
Updated: 2011-01-17
Packaged: 2017-10-23 02:18:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/245180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sentientcitizen/pseuds/sentientcitizen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>DI Lestrade investigates the diseperence of DCI Shipton.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ripples

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scarletsherlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarletsherlock/gifts).



> I don't own Sherlock in ANY of his incarnations, and I definitly don't own Doctor Who. (Oh, I wish!) As such, I'm not making any money off this fic.

The thing was, Lestrade had quite liked DCI Shipton. He’d been young for the job – significantly younger than Lestrade himself – and a damn cocky bastard to boot, but he’d been _brilliant_. He had a real set of copper’s instincts, a terrier’s tenacity, and an arrest record that Lestrade could only _hope_ to someday match. So, yeah, some of the other lads had grumbled, and sometimes Lestrade joined in lest he be accused of brown-nosing, but he hadn’t really minded reporting to the kid. Hell, he’d even made a real effort, in the privacy of his own skull, to stop thinking of the man as “the kid”.

And now Shipton’s gone. Vanished without a fucking trace a week ago, and the last person to see him, near as anyone can figure, is this Sparrow women. Who’s apparently so old fashioned she doesn’t even own a cellphone, and is “between homes” at the moment, so she doesn’t have a landline. Which is damned suspicious, by Lestrade’s way of things.

His own phone reminds him of its presence by buzzing in his pocket. He ignores it. It’s almost certainly that wanker Holmes, off at him again. It doesn’t matter how many times he tells the man there’s no such thing as a “consulting detective”...

The department won’t let him investigate. No sign of foul play, they say, shrugging their shoulders. Sometimes people do things like this, they say, and yes, Lestrade, it _is_ suspicious, but we haven’t any _evidence_. Whad’ya want us to do then, mate?

 _Something_ , Lestrade wants to scream, _anything_ , because brilliant young men on their way up, with a passion for their job and that ambitious sparkle in their eye, don’t just _vanish_. Something is very, very wrong with the whole damn thing, and Lestrade is sick of waiting for higher-ups to do something. Shipton might have been his boss, but in a strange sort of way, Lestrade can’t help but feel like he’s responsible for the kid. He’d practically watched the kid – the man – grow up, for chrissake. He wasn’t going to walk away from this. He _couldn’t_.

Which was why he was here, out of uniform and looking like nothing more than the meddlesome civilian he was, walking into the door of a local DVD shop, in search of one Larry Nightingale: the only person in all of bloody London that Sally Sparrow’s friends had said might know where she was. Sparrow and Nightingale – Christ, they sounded like some kind of fancy store for suits that cost more than Lestrade made in a year.

“Hey,” he greets the girl at the front desk.

She smiles sunnily back at him, and he finds himself liking her automatically.

Forty minutes later he stomps out, fighting for calm. Blast that Sparrow woman, anyways. She’d answered his questions with questions, talked him in circles, all but laughed in his face – and the worst thing was, she wasn’t _wrong_ when she said he had no right to be there.

His pone buzzes, and he pulls it out automatically, then makes a face. It’s Holmes again. _Ask her about the angels,_ the text says. Utter rubbish. Lestrade snorts, shoves the cellphone back in his pocket, looks up – and freezes. Across the street, perched on a little plinth, is a statue of an angel, face in its hands. But Lestrade hadn’t told anyone... how did the arrogant little berk know that...?

Feeling uneasy for no reason he can pin down, Lestrade slouches home, lost in thought. Maybe... maybe in the morning, he’ll give that bastard Holmes a call.


End file.
